Give Him Time
by nerdsaretotallyawesome
Summary: Bucky slowly heals and remembers. He needs time, and that, Steve can give.


Bucky is doing fine, really. Great, given the circumstances of course. After Sam and Steve found him somewhere hidden away from everyone and coaxed him into coming with them, he's been doing okay. He's living with Steve, because it seemed like the most logical thing to do; Sam seemed to be glad that he didn't have to take care of the brainwashed killer, and Steve understands. But despite everything, he trusts Bucky. He trusts him with his life, and he hasn't been let down. It was him who hauled Steve out of the water when he had every excuse not to. He is sure that the old Bucky is still in there.  
Sometimes, his eyes glaze over and his metal arm flexes and twists, ready to strike. But then he snaps out of it and resumes whatever he was doing. He's slowly learning to supress what he's been taught to do. He doesn't talk much; Steve realizes he needs time, and that, he can give. There's no way he can take away the agony that Bucky feels, but he can give him the time to heal on his own, until he's ready.  
At times Steve looks at him, and he gets hit with the realization that the man he considers his best friend, his _only _friend for a long time, is here. He's here and he's alive and he may not be well right now, but his presence is enough to make Steve believe that everything will be okay. He also realized that he loves him. He's always loved him, but especially back in the day, he repressed his feelings as wording them surely would have gotten him killed. Or at least beaten up, and everyone knows he got plenty of that already.

At last, Bucky speaks. And he doesn't murmur like he used to, seemingly afraid of what might come out, no, he speaks up. Steve is sitting on the couch watching TV, and Bucky had been sitting in his room.

"Steve."  
At first he thinks someone broke in, and he jumps up from the couch, ready to defend himself. But then the voice registers, and hearing it saying his name is enough to bring tears to his eyes.  
"Yeah, Bucky?" He answers, almost choking on the last syllable. Bucky perks up at hearing his nickname and smiles carefully, as if he hasn't done it in so long he doesn't quite know how to do it anymore. He doesn't respond, only stands there looking at Steve, and his eyes are shining with a newfound hope that he thought he lost many years ago.  
He steps forward, crossing the distance between them. Steve doesn't know what he's doing, but then Bucky wraps his right arm around his waist and slowly lifts his metal one to do the same. He's very careful with that arm; has been ever since he stopped using it for its intended use.  
Steve thinks back at the times where hugs between them were scarce and awkward, where he didn't know if he should indulge or not.  
Now, he doesn't hesitate. He wraps both arms around his friend, and when Bucky rests his head on Steve's shoulder, he dares to stroke his back. His long hair tickles a bit at his neck. Then he feels something warm and wet on his shoulder blade and hears the faint sounds of quiet sobs. He holds Bucky a little bit tighter, not wanting to let him go away again. His own eyes start pricking and before he knows it he's crying too, letting out all the sorrow and pain and loss that passed between them. Bucky lifts his head to look Steve in the eyes, and Steve remembers how they looked when he said: "Who the hell is Bucky?" and he really shouldn't think back on that, but he does anyway. Bucky's eyes are red and bare, stripped of the black that surrounded them before. He looks familiar and foreign at the same time.  
Bucky's lips are moving, and he seems to be saying something, but it's too soft to hear. It looks like he's practicing what he wants to say. Steve lets him, revelling in the fact that Bucky is still holding onto him like this, and that he _can _do that.  
When Bucky is ready to speak, he leans closer to Steve, and he's looking at him so intently that it seems like he's trying to memorize every bit of his face. Steve can't deny he's not doing the same. His lips form the words with great care, although he still hitches on the first word. Steve can't find it in him to care though; hearing the words means more than he ever thought they would.

"I -… I'm with you 'till the end of the line."


End file.
